


The Making of Mac & Cheese

by RakishAngle (afterdinnerminx)



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Driving, F/F, Lesbian Character That Won't Get Killed, Racing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7938913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterdinnerminx/pseuds/RakishAngle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Blood at the Wheel, the Adventuress' Club needed to find a new mechanic. They found Colby Davidson. But she's interested in more than just fixing their automobiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First, They Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Colby Davidson lovingly inspired by Sue Perkins and, specifically, the image that can be found here: http://bit.ly/2cjZvN2

The thwack of yet another splat of mud stung her exposed face and her eyes were watering, despite wearing the set of high quality driving goggles she purchased last season. Yet, Dr. Elizabeth Macmillan was determined to beat the red car in front of her.  
Car. Humph. It isn’t just any car.  
The _car_ in question a highly modified Maybach Zeppelin with a 150 horsepower, V-12 engine and — somehow, if the rumors are correct — smuggled in from Germany before any of the standard versions came off the line. The car was heavy and high-powered. Even so, this wasn’t a racing car. Not like the new Bentley Six Works racing car that Mac spied in the Adventuress’ Club garage. The one brought here by the same owner of the behemoth in front of her.  
Mac saw an opening, a way to squeeze the corner of the upcoming curve.  
Damn.  
Damn, damn.  
She was cut off at the last moment.  
And she didn’t have much luck getting beyond her at the S or the U-shaped curves either. But it was the speedway that showed what the Zeppelin could do. Mac was gunning it, revving as high as her Salmson would take her, and still, she was left in the dust. A big cloud of it.  
By the time Mac crossed the finish line, her adversary was already out of the car, leaning on the driver's side door, the zipper of her overalls having been pulled down to her waist, exposing a tailored shirt and dark braces. The driver was in the midst of sliding off her driving helmet. She had short, crisp dark hair. Not a bob. Not like a flapper. Not like Phryne’s. It was a man’s cut, short and tapered, sleek with pomade. The front part of the quiff had come loose, bringing down two spikes of dark fringe to hang over her right eye.  
The driver was smirking.  
Mac was fuming. _The nerve of her_ , she thought. Not wanting to make a bad, or at least uncontrolled, impression on the new mechanic at the club, she waited in her driver’s seat for a full minute. When she finally got out, she strolled toward the Zeppelin. And when she was raising her arm to hold out her hand in greeting, she was interrupted.  
“You glorious creature,” declared the driver, peering over Mac’s shoulder at the Salmson, now coated in mud and dust, with a branch hanging out of its bonnet as an afterthought or, perhaps a springtime accessory.  
Mac smiled. Yes, her car is glorious. She’s had it for a number of years. It may not be as new as some of the others but she is light and quick. A strong challenger at the track with no few wins under her belt. Mac looks back over her shoulder and then returns to the driver, “Yes... She is lovely and I adore her.” Finally, Mac gets the chance to hold out her hand, “Let me introduce myself. I’m…”  
“Elizabeth Macmillan, I know. And your car is lovely. It’s very agile. Though it needs a tune up and specifically, the timing. Had this been done before our race, you would have beaten me.” Then she holds out her own hand, “It is nice to officially meet you, Dr. Macmillan. I’m Colby Davidson.”  
“And for the record,” Colby dropped her hand, looked down and then slowly raised her eyes, scrutinizing Mac inch by inch, and said, “it wasn’t the car I was referring to.”


	2. The Relocation of Colby Davidson

Colby Davidson’s morning was like practically every other morning she’s had since she got to this god-forsaken island.  
Boring.  
She woke up, rang the bell at the side of her bed, was brought tea, toast, and the morning paper while someone else opened the curtains and drew a bath. Within the hour, she was groomed and suited, and ready to start the day.  
Except the day was not ready for her.  
She had no plans other than the afternoon gathering down the hill at the Adventuress’ Club.  
_It’s only been a few weeks_ , she thought. _There must be something to look forward to here._ Of course there is: the formidable red-head who she’s been thinking of since their race last week.  
Colby straightened her waistcoat and checked her hair, resisting the temptation to smooth out that one spot that would doubtlessly fall across her forehead before the sun would set this evening, and she considered what reason she could possibly have for visiting the medical examiner at the county morgue or a lady doctor and the county hospital.  
The hospital. There are much better reasons for visiting a hospital than a morgue, Colby reasoned, even if she didn’t yet know what they were.  
With that, she bid farewell to Mr. And Mrs. Hargreaves, who were both in the kitchen having their own tea and toast with the rest of the staff, donned her hat and driving gloves, and walked out to her newly cleaned and polished Zeppelin.  
There were thick, billowy, white clouds in the sky. Not dark enough to threaten a storm, not thin enough to see much of a blue sky. Just fat, cushy animal shapes, trouncing around the sky like they belonged there. _Good for them. I’m going to be making my own fun down here._ And she drove off, leaving thick, billowy, cream-colored clouds behind her in fat, cushy shapes that fell to the ground just as quickly as they formed, already forgotten to the driver as she sped down the hill.  
Her mother would have been irate to hear her precious homeland be called an island. How many times had she been told, “It’s a country, Colby, not an island. And the entire continent is named after it. It’s as big as the United States, and larger than all of Persia. It could swallow all of your precious Europe. You can have the life you want there. Any life at all. You can be a man. You can be women. You can own a country estate or run the city. That’s where you holdings are. So why not make it your future?”  
Yes, it’s expansive.  
Yes, land is cheap.  
Yes, her fortune is already here, invested, more than she could ever use in a lifetime.  
But, it’s also surrounded by water. It’s an island.  
Just like her native country.  
When Colby was young, before her teens, there was a fire in the small town she lived in and it burned everything, including their home, and, as it turns out, the building with all record of all the births and all the deaths in the vicinity. It was replaced in 1924 with a more central records office in Bristol, the closest nearby city. Her mother, or, if you consider her younger sister, their mother, took the opportunity to make some changes to their birth records and she had the help of her brother, a doctor, to do so.  
From that point on, she and her sister Peyton officially became boys. On paper, at any rate.  
It secured their future. It allowed their mother to inherit her parent’s estate for her children. It secured for them, a right to vote. Their right to owning land would, from that point on, be uncontested. And all they had to do was dress and act accordingly. It was more difficult for Peyton than for Colby, who took to it naturally.  
Finally, she was unencumbered by vats of fabric pooling at her feet while she was busy running, or studying, or fixing things, or exploring. That said, her social life became somewhat hindered. Her mother hadn’t expected that upon moving to her brother’s estate with two young boys that the mothers of future eligible wives would come courting for sake of her son’s future courting of their daughters.  
After a certain age, it became awkward and the two sons became known as reclusive.  
The house mechanic helped. Colby was glued to his side for the next several years. And when the war hit, and she was conscripted, she was able to use enough of her contacts to secure a position as a mechanic. Thus, changing her life again.  
Colby’s post-war life happened anywhere but England, anywhere she wouldn’t be recognized, anywhere she could pass for a man, anywhere she could stay and settle, but only for a few months before those around her cottoned on. She could have disappeared in Paris forever, and she was well on her way to do so, until her mother remarried, transferring ownership of the Australia holdings to Colby, and effectively forcing her relocation, temporary as it might be.  
So she’s rich.  
And she’s a woman who is officially a man, who is actually a woman, who prefers dressing as a man, and being, quite frankly, with women.  
Smart women.  
Daring women.  
Women who laugh loudly.  
Women who drink whisky.  
Women who can handle being in the driver’s seat of a fast car.  
Women who wear waistcoats.  
Women like her.  
Colby arrived at the hospital and observed it, pleasantly surprised at the level of care, despite the relative lack of the latest technology. That is something that can easily be resolved and is exactly the kind of subterfuge that Colby is interested in adopting for what will undoubtedly be a lengthy and arduous process of wooing the remarkable, and remarkably reticent, Dr. Elizabeth Macmillan.


End file.
